


Parallels

by jennytork



Series: Busted [1]
Category: Starsky and Hutch - Fandom, The Monkees
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Monkees as cops, Monkees only, Smart Peter Tork, pretty much SOP for S&H
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennytork/pseuds/jennytork
Summary: Unexpected twists of fate alter two of the Monkees forever -- and then, they meet their dopplegangers....
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s)
Series: Busted [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1831303
Comments: 5
Kudos: 4





	1. Origins

It began the day Mike, Peter and Micky had defeated Babyface Morales -- who, incidentally, happened to look exactly like Micky.

When the dust had cleared, the identical Mickys were sitting in the police station, with the police unable to tell Morales from Micky. Both sat there, pleading with the detective that he was Micky Dolenz!

After about ten minutes of this, Peter raised his hand and pointed at the one on the right. "That's Micky," he said with utter and unshakeable conviction.

The indicated one burst into a huge grin. The other one burst out, "Aw, but, _Mike..._ "

Peter burst into one of his trademark dimpled grins. "I'm Peter," he said as Micky moved to his side and the gangster was surrounded by police.

Morales dropped the act and fair to turned the room blue with his invectives as he was led away. "Good work, son," Captain Reynolds said, shaking his hand. "How'd you know?"

"Morales was taking his cues from Micky," Peter said simply, shrugging. "He'd say or do things a split-second later."

"Mighty fine piece of detective work, Peter," Reynolds pumped his hand again, then let him go.

Peter was quiet all that evening, memories of that one compliment swirling in his brain and invading his dreams that night.

Two days later, Captain Reynolds looked up to find Peter walking into his office! "Well, hello Peter!" he smiled. "What can I do for you?"

"I want to do it again," he said bluntly.

"Do what again?"

"What I did the other day," he said, pointing at the corner of the room where the doubles had set. "Be a detective."

Reynolds lost his smile. "Son, it's not that simple. A real detective goes to the police academy for a long time, goes through intensive tests and ---" his phone rang. "Excuse me." He answered the phone and looked out the window as he talked to the chief for a few moments.

While he talked, Peter picked up a folder on his desk and began to leaf through it. He found himself looking at descriptions of a robbery ring that seemed to have nothing in common.

His eyes narrowed as he read the reports a second time. Nothing in common at all....except....

"Hey!" Reynolds lifted the folder out of his hands. "Peter, this is police business. Not for the public to loo----"

"Why haven't you interviewed the redheaded woman?" Peter asked.

Reynolds frowned. "What?"

"The redheaded woman." Peter took the folder back and laid it so the chief could see it. "Every robbery, the victim reported talking with a redheaded woman either in a green or a teal dress before they were attacked. Why hasn't anyone talked to her?"

"Let me see that." He reread the reports. "Hang on...." He got up and moved to a map on the wall, tracing something with his finger. "Well, I'll be damned. Every robbery was near Covington Street....."

"......in the heart of the club district," Peter said, standing as well. "Here," and he tapped right in the center of the rough circle Reynolds had drawn, "is the Marquis club. We've played there a couple of times. Really rundown area."

"The Marquis club?" Reynolds echoed, staring at the map.

"Owner's Tim Barningham." Peter's eyes widened and he turned and met Reynolds's eyes. "His wife's got brilliant red hair -- and both times I've seen her, she's been wearing green."

"Damn," Reynolds said, lurching for the phone. "Get me Barnes!" he barked before turning to Peter. "Peter, if you've given us what we need to crack this case...."

Peter tilted his head. "I can be a detective?"

"I will personally see that you're rushed through the Academy! Barnes, this is Reynolds! I think we may just have a break!"

Four days later, a sheaf of papers arrived at the Pad for Peter. They were a nearly-completed application to the Academy, with a note clipped to it giving a 'report-to' date. All Peter had to do was sign them and bring them --- and he would take the first step toward being a policeman.

Two weeks after that, Cadet Peter Tork secretly began accelerated classes at the Los Angeles Police Academy --- his long hair held in check by a leather tieback.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two years went by, and Peter graduated, looking elegant in his dress blues and neat hat. He'd managed to keep it secret all this time what he was doing.

He burned the midnight oil for several nights straight, and took the test that was, to him, the most important one of all.

July 20, 1969 was a day special in many many ways. Mankind took its first steps onto the moon. Several mothers held their newborn babies for the first time. Several couples united in matrimony.

And Officer Peter Tork's score on the test earned him a gold shield and the rank of Detective. As he shook Reynolds's hand, he wept tears of pure joy.

His dream was now reality.

That October, he wore his dress blues to a costume party and no one batted an eye.

It was Thanksgiving when he was discovered.

Micky had caught him studying a mysterious folder at the table, but when he went to find what he'd been reading, the folder had vanished.

Out of the blue, Peter announced he'd gotten them a five-week gig at the Jamboree. Suspicious Mike called him on it, and Peter -- with a glare that was so surprising it literally shut Mike up -- said simply, "I got it. We get paid for it. That's _all_."

It was at their second gig there that Micky realised things would never quite be the same again. From his vantage point behind the drum set, he got to watch his friends' backsides quite a bit. On the first gig at the Jamboree, he'd noticed Peter's reticence, his not quite willingness to move around as much as usual as he played.

But on the second gig he saw the gun.

It took him a little while to realise what it was. At first all he saw was a strange bulge at the rear waistband of Peter's jeans. But as the concert wore on, the bass guitar strap rode Peter's jacket up for a second, and the grip was plainly seen.

Micky went cold all over. As soon as the gig ended, he tried to confront Peter about it. He pulled him to the side. "We gotta talk."

Suddenly Peter frowned and a hand flew to his ear, covering the earpiece there. Earlier he'd told his bandmates that it was a transistor radio and he'd have it turned off onstage. "Later, Micky," he said, breaking into a run and racing out the back door of the club.

Startled, Micky followed him --- and saw Peter draw the gun as he ran after a man who was throwing bags of drugs into the alleys as he ran past them, obviously trying to get rid of evidence. Micky frowned. "What in the...."

"LAPD! FREEZE!"

Micky's jaw slammed open and he had to clutch the side of the building to keep upright as his world shattered around him and reformed into something he didn't quite understand.

Peter had screamed those words. Peter had fired a single shot and brought the runner down with a bullet in his calf.

Peter carried a gun. Peter _used_ a gun.

The men who ran up to him and arrested the runner praised him for the 'clean takedown', for the 'bust' -- one even teased him and tousled the long hair, and Peter laughed at it!

"Omig-d," Micky breathed, almond-shaped eyes huge. "....my G-d.... Peter's a.... Peter's a _cop_?"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Micky kept what he'd discovered to himself. He figured if Peter hadn't told them he was a cop, there must have been a very good reason.

That didn't stop him from doing a bit of snooping, however.

Over the next few weeks, Micky discovered that Peter rotated between Vice, Robbery and Homicide -- which Micky very quickly learned how to tell. The Homicide cases, Peter was just a shade quieter at home, a bit protective -- and he had vicious nightmares.

Micky also found out Peter worked directly under Captain Reynolds, that he drove a nondescript blue car at work, and that he worked in both Malibu Beach and nearby Malibu -- and even in Los Angeles itself at times.

And he worked alone. Unlike other cops, Peter couldn't keep a partner! He'd occasionally _have_ a partner, Micky'd observe --- but they never lasted long. The 'click' that occurred never seemed to happen. Micky could see that quietly eating at Peter's soul.

One night, Micky watched from the top of the stairs as Peter moved to the kitchen, bleary-eyed and trembling.

 _Another nightmare,_ Micky thought. _Must be in Homicide again._

He saw Peter put a pan of milk on to heat, then go to the cabinet and take out the Pepto-Bismol. Unscrewing the cap, Peter brought the bottle to his lips and drank a large swig of it straight down.

Micky winced. _Correction: he is DEFINITELY working Homicide -- a BAD one._

Peter sat at the table, nursing his warm milk. Micky watched him for a few more moments, then he went back into his own bedroom.

But the images of Peter's defeated posture and troubled appearance haunted Micky and kept sleep at bay. _It must be horrible,_ Micky thought. _Out there day after day, never knowing what you're gonna face next..... Not really trusting anyone to watch your back because you're different...._

Sleep finally arrived with two words repeating on an endless cycle in Micky's mind.

_No more._

Three days later, unbeknownst to anyone -- even Peter -- Micky went to see Captain Reynolds.

Two days after that, Cadet Micky Dolenz went to his first class at the Los Angeles Police Academy.

~~~~~~~

January 12, 1975. Peter knocked on Reynolds's door. "You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Peter," Reynolds smiled. "After a very long time, we finally have a permanent partner for you."

Peter moaned. "Sir, we've been through this..."

Reynolds went on as if Peter'd not spoken. "He passed the detective's exam yesterday. Specifically requested you as his partner."

"A rookie?" Peter let out another moan. "Sir, you know I have trouble with a partner! I've never been able to find one I trust implicitly and now you're putting me with a _rookie_?"

From behind Peter came a voice he had never expected to hear at work. "I'm hurt, Big Peter.... if you can't trust me by now...."

Peter whirled so fast his blonde bangs bounced against his forehead. "MICKY?!?"

"Surprise," Micky grinned.

"B-But...." He scanned Micky up and down. His eyes widened as Micky slowly pulled back his jacket, revealing a holstered gun on his right shoulder.

"Yeah," Micky grinned in reply to the body language. "I'm a southpaw -- switched in school." The grin widened. "And now I'm a cop -- just like you."

"But... why?"

"Who better to watch your back than someone you already trust?" Micky spread his hands.

Peter turned to Reynolds, who held up a hand. "It was his idea. I had nothing to do with it."

Peter turned back to Micky. "We have to talk," he growled, grabbing him by the collar and dragging him out of the office.

"Dismissed," Reynolds chuckled.

~~~~~~~  
Once the shock wore off, something happened that surprised Peter -- he and Micky 'clicked' as partners. And over the weeks and months that followed, their solve rate went through the roof. Peter's solve rate had always been good -- but together with his old friend, it became amazing!

And their roommates and bandmates were still in the dark! Mike and Davy knew they held jobs with occasionally odd hours, but beyond that, they didn't seem interested in details.

In the fall of 1977, though, that changed. It started when the partners were called into Reynolds's office and given a folder.

"This guy's killed seven women in two cities," Reynolds said grimly. Two here in Malibu Beach."

Peter looked through the folder and sighed. "No one we know."

"Yet," Micky sighed as well.

"You'll be working with a pair of detectives from Bay City, where the other murders took place," Reynolds finished.

Peter nodded slowly. "When will they be here?"

"Tomorrow. Their names are David Starsky and Ken Hutchinson."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next morning, Peter and Micky walked in to find Reynolds looking a bit shell-shocked. "Captain?" Micky asked.

At that, the two figures seated in front of Reynolds’s desk stood and turned. Peter and Micky both blinked at them, their jaws unhinging.

Peter stepped forward. "Peter Tork."

"Ken Hutchinson," he introduced himself. "Hutch to my partners."

"Hutch." Peter's eyes scanned him, marveling at the irony. The straight, fine blonde hair... the jeans and light brown jacket exactly like he was wearing....

"Then you gotta be Starsky," Micky said, shaking his head and grinning. "Like your hairdo."

"You would," a Brooklyn-accented voice shot back as a crooked grin appeared on his face. "And you gotta be Micky."

"Right on one. Like your tailor, too."

Laughter and a left arm stole around Micky's shoulders. "Got anywhere’s about here we can sit, talk, eat, and compare notes?"

Micky's face lit up. "You like Italian?"

Reynolds couldn't stop the double-take as both blondes rolled their eyes in perfect unison.

~~~~~~~  
The four were leaving the restaurant and making plans to go to the Pad for the rest of Peter and Micky's research when gunshots rang out.

They dived in two directions, and came up warily. "SEE ANYTHING?" Peter called.

"NO!" Hutch called back. "YOU?"

"NO!" At that instant the gunfire started again, pinning down two while driving the other two away. "REHOOK UP AT THE PAD!" Peter screeched.

No answer. "Dang," Peter sighed, sinking beside his curly-haired partner. "You think they can find the Pad?"

"I know they can," came the answer in a strangely accented voice. "Mind givin' me a hand here?"

Peter holstered the gun and dropped beside the man. He took his handkerchief and pressed it to the bleeding shoulder. "Lovely, I would get stuck with you..."

Starsky managed a cheeky grin. "What, my natural magnetism too much for you?"

"Shut up and let's get you taken care of." He sighed. "I hope your partner can handle mine."

"Oh?"

"He's a handful."

As they broke cover, the gunshots started again. This time, though, they returned fire and smoked the shooter out --- winging a slight man as he darted into a car and away.

Peter cursed and holstered his gun. "That went nowhere fast...."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Micky and Hutch drove to the station and began to pore over both mug books and the case files. "Weren't we supposed to go to your house?" Hutch asked as he handed Micky a cup of coffee, somewhat amused when Micky took it with his left hand.

"Yeah, but it'll keep a bit," Micky said, not raising his eyes from the mug books as he drank, wincing at the bitterness. "Two sugars," he said, handing it back to Hutch without looking. "And cream."

Hutch let out a snort as he moved back to the pot. "You drink your coffee loaded with all that junk?"

"Now you sound like Peter," Micky laughed. "I drink my coffee like I drink my coffee!"

"Bet you like doughnuts and Mexican food, too," Hutch commented as he handed the loaded coffee to Micky and sat down opposite him in the seat that was usually Peter's.

Micky looked up at last, startled. "How in the world did you know that?"

A slightly-dimpled smile shone out. "Because you're eerily similar to another curly-topped, left-handed partner I work with."

"And you're too close for comfort to a certain dimpled blonde partner I work with," Micky chuckled. "Good thing you're not a musician on the side." He took a sip of his coffee.

"I play guitar and have recorded a few demos," Hutch replied smoothly and truthfully.

He ended up wearing Micky's coffee.

~~~~~~~  
Mike and Davy shot to their feet, startled, as Peter bombed into the Pad, supporting a curly-haired man with blood on his shoulder. "First-aid kit!" he bellowed curtly, startling them a second time.

Davy shook himself out of his stupor and bolted for the bathroom. Mike ran over and helped Peter move the man to the couch. "Pete...Micky...what happened?"

"Half right, cowboy," a strange voice said and the curly head tipped backward, revealing a face that was totally unfamiliar to Mike. The similarities were only surface deep -- hair, slender build and clothing. The almond-shaped eyes were sky blue, not the nut-brown of Micky's.

"Who the hell are you?" Mike gasped, jerking backward and raising his head, his eyes snapping a demand to Peter.

Peter saw, registered, and summarily-- DISMISSED! -- Mike, taking the kit from Davy and pulling off the man's jacket, working on his shoulder. "This is Dave Starsky," he said as he tended the wound with the obvious ease of one who'd done it before!

Davy gasped at the shoulder holster. "Mike, he's armed!" he gasped, his accent thickening as his emotions deepened.

"Peter?" Mike asked, tension in his voice.

"Yes, he's armed," Peter said, firing one of Mike's own Glares at him. "Deal with it. So am I."

A beat. Two.

"WHAT?!?!?!" burst from Mike and Davy at the same time.

Peter rolled his eyes heavenward. "I don't have time for this..." He pulled one side of his jacket back and revealed his own loaded shoulder holster.

"Oh, shit," Davy breathed, forgetting to censor himself.

Under the circumstances, Mike let it slide. "Peter, what in the world is going on here? What have you gotten mixed up in now?"

Peter ignored him again, focusing on bandaging Starsky's shoulder. "How's that?"

Starsky raised his arm experimentally and sweat popped out on his forehead. "It'll do. Where are they?"

"They should have been here by now," Peter sighed. "I hope they didn't run into trouble...."

"Peter, answer me!" Mike demanded.

"That's it," Davy growled, backing up toward the phone. "I don't like any of this, I'm calling the police!"

"No need," Peter said, flipping a slender wallet to Mike.

Mike opened it and turned five shades of pale. He looked from the wallet to Peter, and back again. Then something happened that had never happened in the decade the Monkees had been together.

Mike Nesmith fainted dead away.


	2. Resolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case deepens.....

"Well, that went well," Peter sighed as he brought Mike around gently.

Davy picked up the wallet and blinked at it. "There.... this must be a mistake! Peter, you...."

"I hold the rank of Detective Sergeant in the Malibu Beach division of the LAPD," Peter said as Mike opened his eyes.

Mike gripped his arms as he sat up. "I wasn't.... that wasn't a... you really are...."

Peter grinned. "The word you're looking for is 'cop', Michael. And yes, I really am."

Davy began to grin. "Oooh boy, just wait until Micky finds out about this!"

"Micky already knows," Peter said. At their odd looks, he said with a grin, "He's been my partner for three years."

THUMP. Davy sat right down on the floor. Mike seriously considered fainting again.

And the phone chose that moment to ring. Peter scooped it up. "Hello?" Then his face lit up, and promptly darkened again. "Micky, where are you? Are you oka...oh." He covered the mouthpiece. "He and Hutch are at the station."

"Figures," Starsky chuckled.

"What?" Peter said into the phone. "......why?" Then his spine straightened before his shoulders slumped and a hand dragged wearily across his forehead. "Aw, shit..." he sighed in a suddenly very weary voice. “Yeah, we'll be right there. See you at the scene." He hung up.

Starsky climbed to his feet and grabbed his jacket, his own face wary and his voice reflecting it. "At the scene?"

Peter let out another sigh before he turned around. "There's been another one."

"Oh, G-d," Starsky breathed. "Where?"

"Behind the Belvedere." He pointed at Mike and Davy. "You two stay here. We may need to call here and we want you manning the phones for us, got it?"

"G-got it," Davy stammered, too stunned to do anything else.

"P-Peter, wait," Mike said, holding up a hand. "Been another what?"

Peter paused, his hand on the knob. "Another murder," he said before he flung it open and left, Starsky hot on his heels.

Davy and Mike looked at each other, identical expressions of confused and fearful worry in their eyes.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Micky hung up the phone. "He said they'd meet us at the scene."

"Do you know where it is?" Hutch asked. "We should have gotten a map of Malibu Beach...."

With a chuckle, Micky slid a map to Hutch. "The Belvedere is in the Benton District - the ritzy area of town."

Hutch nodded. "Let's go."

~~~~~~~

They arrived in the middle of a second sniper attack. Cursing, Micky and Hutch rolled out of the light blue car just as a bullet spider-webbed the passenger side windshield.

"Peter's gonna kill me!" Micky called over the shots.

"If this idiot doesn't do it first!" Hutch shouted, standing up to fire at the sniper. Micky screamed his name as a bullet sent Hutch spinning to the ground.

A barrage of bullets from three guns, and a slightly-built man ran to a nondescript green truck and tore away.

"CF58--- crud, only got a partial," Peter growled as he jogged up. "You okay?"

"I am," Micky said. "Hutch...."

"...is gonna have a headache," the other blonde said as he was helped to his feet. "Cool it, willya?" he groused, pulling away from Starsky's helping hands. "I'm fine."

"You're shot," Starsky shot back. "And what's this about a headache?" He reached for Hutch's hair.

"Will you CUT IT OUT?" Hutch batted his hands away. "I was shot in the arm, not the head! I'm gonna have a headache cause I hit my head on the car on the way down!"

"The bullet still in there?" Starsky asked.

Hutch glared at him. "It grazed me. I'm fine."

Starsky held up both hands. "Only tryin' to help...."

"Yeah, your 'help' is gonna kill me one of these days!"

Peter chuckled. "Nice to see we're not the only ones..."

Micky cleared his throat. "Peter... the guy hit your car, too...."

A deep sigh, and Peter said, "You three go check out the scene. I'm gonna call in that partial."

"Sure seems odd," Hutch put in, "that we've been sniped at twice now ... once at a murder scene."

"I'd be very surprised if they weren't connected somehow," Micky nodded thoughtfully.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Peter called in the partial plate, and the two cars were on their way back to the Pad when the radio came to life. "Three-Thomas-Eleven."

Peter lifted the radio. "Three-Thomas-Eleven, go ahead."

The woman's voice continued, "Three-Thomas-Eleven, C-DOT reports six possibles for your partial plate."

"Locations, Lottie?"

"Three in LA, one in Sacramento, one in San Diego, and two in Bay City."

Micky looked over at Peter. "She did _not_ say Bay City."

"She said Bay City," Peter said, keying the mic. "Three-Thomas-Eleven to Zebra-Three."

"Zebra-Three," Hutch's voice replied.

"Hutch, we've got two possibles on the partial plates, from Bay City."

Hutch looked over at Starsky. "First murders were in Bay City."

Starsky nodded grimly and took the mic. "Pete, get us the names."

"Already on it," came the quick reply. "And it's Peter."

Another moment, then Peter relayed, "No good, fellas. Our suspect's a slim-built man and both cars are registered to women -- Michelle Layton and Tammy Cole."

Another glance, and Hutch replied, "Tammy Cole was one of the first victims. We'll have to confirm with Bay City that the car was stolen..."

"But still, it's a lead!" Micky grinned.

"Yeah, one about as skinny as Michael, though," Peter sighed as he turned the car into the drive.

"Speaking of Mike," Micky said as he got out of the car. "I’ll get him to help me fix this windshield."

"You do that," Peter said as he moved toward the striped car that had pulled in behind them. "I'll see if I can get Casanova Jones off the phone long enough for us to make these calls."

Micky grinned. "If not, think we can charge him with obstruction of justice?"

"Interfering with an investigation," Peter laughed. This banter, in one form or another, had been a running joke between the partners for months.

~~~~~~~

Davy was, indeed, on the phone. When he saw the four walk in, though, he got off fast and for a long moment just stood there, mouth agape as he stared at Hutch.

One near look-alike was bad enough --- but two of them?

Starsky assured Peter the Bay City PD would reimburse them for the long-distance call, and placed it.

While he was on the phone, Davy stuttered out he was going to go help Mike and bolted from the room.

"Who's the kid?" Hutch asked.

Peter laughed. "That kid is thirty-two years old. That's Davy, one of our roommates. Michael is the other one."

"All set!" Starsky grinned.

"You got in touch with the department?" Peter asked.

"Better! Got in touch with Huggy Bear!"

Seeing Hutch's face light up, Peter mused, "Unusual name."

"He's an unusual man," Hutch said with a smile. "If it goes down in Bay City, Huggy Bear can find out about it faster than any cop."

"And he's coming here," Starsky grinned, examining the totem pole by the door. "He said he'd be here tomorrow night."

"Great," Hutch said, but his smile had begun to fade. "Let's just hope between now and then, there isn't another murder."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Fate wasn't kind to the pair of partners. Not only was there another murder, there was another sniping incident.

When Huggy Bear arrived, he entered the Pad in typical Huggy style -- with a flashy swagger and a cocky, "Never you fear, Huggy Bear is here!"

Peter blinked, scanning Huggy up and down, and then looked wide-eyed at Hutch. "Your friend is a pimp?!"

"No," Hutch chuckled. "That's just Huggy's misguided sense of style."

"Misguided?" Huggy put on a air of affronted dignity and strode over to Hutch. "Mis-guided? I will have you know, my golden friend, this is the height of style in New York City!"

"Like he said, Huggy," New York native Starsky laughed "Misguided."

"Oh-ho...." the reed-thin dark-skinned man turned and tried to glare at Starsky, but the smile playing around his lips ruined the effect. "Now see, if I'd'a known I was gonna take this abuse from the fuzz, I'd'a just stayed home!"

Starsky and Hutch both burst into laughter. Peter and Micky smiled at each other. "We have got to find someone like him here," Peter chuckled.

"I'll put out feelers," Micky grinned.

Hutch waved a hand at them. "Huggy, meet the locals -- Detective Peter Tork and Detective Micky Dolenz."

They shook Huggy's hand in order, and Huggy blinked, looking from one man to another. "Whoa," was his articulate response. "Deja-vu times two!"

Peter grinned. "Let's get down to business, shall we?"

Huggy sat down on the couch and drew out several files from his fringed pouch. "Marshall sent a batch o'info with me besides the scoops I got."

"Great," Starsky said, taking a file.

"Marshall?" Micky asked.

Hutch grinned. "Our captain. Huggy calls him Marshall Dillon to get a rise out of him."

Seeing Micky's grin, Peter pointed at him. "Don't you even think about starting that with Reynolds!"

"Spoilsport," Micky said. "Hey, think Mike and Davy can help us out?"

Peter sighed. "I don't know, man, they're pretty freaked out...."

"C'mon, this'll give 'em a chance to see us actually work, know it's about more than gettin' shot and gettin' the car tore up..."

"Besides," Starsky added, "seven pairs of eyes go faster than five."

Peter sighed. "Where're they at?"

"Finishing the windshield," Micky filled in as he picked up a file.

~~~~~~~

Peter walked into the garage. "Car looks good."

"Thanks," Mike said tightly. "Hard work, fixin' a _shot-out_ windshield..."

"Whoa, there," Peter said, holding up a hand. "Where's all this hostility coming from all of a sudden?"

"Oh, geez, I don't know!" Mike snapped. "Maybe the fact that you have been lying to us for years!"

Peter shook his head. "Okay, so I wasn't exactly forthcoming about what I do for a living! But I know you two! You two worry so much you put mothers to shame!"

"We do not!" Mike and Davy said in unison. Then they looked at each other and both grinned sheepishly. "Well...." Davy admitted.

"Add in the fact Michael is a supreme control freak..." Peter finished.

"Now wait a minute!" Mike snapped.

"Mike..." Davy laid a hand on his arm. "He's right."

Mike let out a weary sigh and ran a hand over his forehead. "Peter, man...."

"I've grown up, Michael," he said softly.

Mike regarded him for a long moment before he smiled slightly. "Yeah, shotgun.... I guess ya have."

Peter smiled sunnily. "Come on -- their informant's here and we're going though the material on the case."

Davy frowned. "But wouldn't we just be in the way?"

"No, we want you there. Come on."

~~~~~~~

When they were all together again, they divided up the files. It didn't take Starsky and Hutch long to figure out Peter and Micky were handing Mike and Davy the files without the crime scene photos.

They smiled at this silent protection of the two civilians. Peter and Micky were subtly shielding the pair from the worst of the ugliness.

The seven pored over the files, with Huggy providing insights he'd picked up on the street here and there. Even Davy and Mike were soon laughing at some of the antics surrounding The Pits nightclub and restaurant in Bay City.

Mike picked up another folder and Peter took it. "Thank you," he said, and passed it to Micky. At Mike's frown, Peter asked quickly, "Who's got the file on Tammy Cole?"

"I do," Hutch said. "Murdered February 15..."

"What car did she drive?" Micky asked. "Her plate matched the partial on our sniper...."

"Didn't drive a car," Hutch replied. "Drove a late-model green truck---" Their eyes met. "---just like the sniper."

"Who found the body?" Mike asked, out of pure morbid curiosity.

"Uhm..." Hutch looked back down. ".... her boyfriend called the police after he'd found her body..."

"Whoa, hold up," Huggy said, diving for another folder. "Second victim -- found after a male voice called the police reporting finding the body."

Micky's eyes widened as he scanned a report. "Third murder, same thing."

"Ditto on the next three," from Huggy.

"Then the murders moved to Malibu Beach..." Peter scanned the paper. "...male voice -- huh, fella's picked up an accent."

"Next one?" Hutch asked Starsky.

A slow nod. "Accented male voice called the PD ... then the snipings started."

Hutch called Bay City and hung up, trembling. "First few voices were accented as well."

"....and our sniper drove a green truck..." Peter said.

Micky dialed dispatch and shook his head as he hung up the phone. "Last murder/sniping? Accented male voice reported location of body."

"And the murders are getting more brutal, too..." Starsky mused. "Son-of-a-bitch's escalating."

"But Cole doesn't fit the pattern," Huggy said. "Every one but her's been a hooker."

After a pause, Davy suggested, "Maybe she was an accident?" All eyes snapped to him and he sighed. "It was just an idea...."

"No," Peter said, opening the folder with her pictures. "No, that's an excellent idea." He studied the pictures and then looked up. "Injuries consistent with accidental death."

"Then suppose he got drunk with the power..." Micky put in.

"And it's takin' more and more to make the same 'high'," Hutch said. He smiled at Davy. "Great work, kid!"

Davy tried to bristle at the 'kid' crack, but he was grinning.

"We got a name for the boyfriend?" Huggy asked.

Hutch scanned the file. "Alexander Thermopolis."

"Which would explain the accent," Mike drawled.

"It definitely would," Peter grinned at them all. "Gentlemen, we finally have an identity for our suspect."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Peter and Micky waited until Davy and Mike were both asleep that night, then they joined Starsky and Hutch at the station. "Anything?" Peter asked as he sat down.

"Not yet," Hutch said, passing him a folder. "We're waiting on both ballistics from the bullet and a run on some fingerprints from the last body."

"Ballistics? Why?" Micky asked. "We don't have the gun they came from."

Starsky held up a clipboard. "But Alexander Thermopolis bought a rifle in Bay City just after the last murder there."

"....and if the bullets match, that gives us the sniper," Peter grinned. "Fingerprints ... our boy's got a record?"

"Petty theft and assault," Micky reported as he read over Hutch's shoulder.

"Makes sense." But Peter had one more question. "So why are we waiting?"

Starsky's face darkened. "Cause the techs are taking their time."

"What?!" Micky and Peter gasped together.

Hutch nodded. "Something about out-of-towners tryin' to muscle in on Malibu Beach... even Starsk's temper couldn't make them -- hey, where are you going?"

Peter's face had darkened as Hutch had talked. By the time he asked the question, Peter was halfway out the Squad Room doors.

Hutch rose to his feet, only to be stopped by Micky's fingers on his chest and a slow shake of his head. "Don't."

"But ---"

"He's gone to get the reports." At their looks, Micky went on, "See there's three things Peter hates worse than anything. People who hurt kids, quitters, and grandstanders. Right now, all he can see is another woman might die while the techs are playing departmental politics."

Within twenty minutes, Peter was back -- with the reports. He threw them onto the desk and sank into the chair heavily, muttering about "stupid people". Micky squeezed his shoulder once, and they set to work.

"Eureka!" Hutch laughed and set the photographs side by side. "The slugs match what that rifle takes."

"Jackpot!" Micky whooped. "Fingerprints match too!"

"Now that we've ID'd him, let's find this guy!" Starsky said, grabbing his jacket.

Peter's face was grim. "Before another lady loses her life."

~~~~~~~

The two cars were cruising in the early hours of the morning when the radio flared to life. "Three-Thomas-Eleven."

"Three-Thomas-Eleven," Peter said into the mic.

"Three-Thomas-Eleven, woman screaming, 1480 Riverside. 1-4-8-0 Riverside."

"Three-Thomas-Eleven, 10-4." Peter hit the lights and siren and behind them, Starsky did the same.

The address was a street in a rundown part of Malibu Beach. As they got out of the car, Micky suddenly said quietly, "Peter..."

Peter followed his gaze. "I see it." He drew his gun and flattened himself against a wall as Micky did the same on the other side of the alley.

Parked nearby was a late-model green truck.

Seeing it, Starsky and Hutch doubled around to the rear of the alley. Once in position, Hutch threw a pebble.

Instantly, Peter swung into the alley, bellowing, "LAPD! FREEZE!"

The slight-built man gasped as his head shot up from his task. In his surprise, he released his grip on the woman's arm.

Gasping and crying, she scrambled slightly away from him before flipping onto her side and driving the stiletto heel of her right foot between his legs.

Full force.

The expression on the man's face was truly priceless. As his intended tenth victim scrambled into Hutch's arms and was hustled to the Torino to await an ambulance, the man's face turned a delightful array of colours as his eyes bugged out and he toppled to his knees.

It was all Peter and Micky could do to keep from laughing as they got Alexander Thermopolis to his feet, relieved him of his two knives, cuffed him and read him his Miranda rights. Starsky peered into the green truck, and then rejoined them. "Rifle's in the truck," he reported.

"Well, Mister Thermopolis," Micky said as they bundled him into the back of Peter's car, "after the merry chase you led us, that capture was almost anticlimactic!"

"Doesn't feel so hot... from this end...either!" was the man's pain-filled reply.

And then the officers did laugh.

~~~~~~~

Four days later.

Micky walked into the Pad to find music filling the air --- but not the Monkees' music.

'Don't give up on us baby  
Don't make the wrong seem right  
The future isn't just one night  
It's written in the moonlight  
And painted on the stars...' *

"Hey," Micky called above the tune.

Peter's head snapped up and he smiled at Micky. Reaching over, he lifted the needle from the record. "Hey. They get off okay?"

Micky nodded and sat on the bandstand beside him. "About fifteen minutes ago. I swear, that Torino needs some engine work.... What've you got?"

"Present from Hutch." Peter lifted the 45 and handed it to Micky. "That demo he told you about. He's pretty good."

"I heard." Micky frowned at the label. "What'd he do, record it under a pseudonym?"

Peter nodded. "What d'you think of it?"

"David Soul. Hmm...."

"No, Micky, you misread it. Look closer."

Micky did, and the frown deepened. "David's Soul...." Then his eyes widened and he began to smile. "Starsky's first name is David...."

"Brothers in all but blood," Peter grinned. "Pretty accurate description of partners, wouldn't you say?"

Micky squeezed his shoulder. "I sure would --- partner."

END  
* "Don't Give Up On Us", recorded by David Soul, 1976


End file.
